The Distorting Medium
by Queen Grapefruit
Summary: Those who forget good and evil and seek only to know the facts are more likely to achieve good than those who view the world through the distorting medium of their own desires." A fic about the many desires, failures, and triumphs of a young pyrokinetic.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Distorting Medium

Author:

Updated: March 1, 2009

* * *

It's not that I hate people, or that their company is unpleasant. Well, not entirely. I do hate some people, and they deserve it. But that's not the point. I enjoyed being with people at one time. I never went out of my way, to seek or to avoid them. I wasn't some insipid social butterfly or anything, the important thing is that I never hated people as a whole until They hated Me.

Then I burned the kitchen counter while helping Mum to make dinner. It's anticlimactic if you're looking for one of the ultimate turning points of my life, but I've found that more often than not, that's how life is.

Mum was home for the first time that whole week, and to make up for leaving her fifteen year old son all on his own she decided to make my favorite meal, short ribs roasted slowly in a big pot full of carrots, beans, potatoes, and parsnips.

It's not like I wasn't perfectly self-sufficient at that point in my life. Mum had always been darting out of the house on some important mission or other, but every time she darted back in she felt bad about leaving me, and I didn't mind letting her 'make up for it.'

So we were in the kitchen together, cooking my favorite meal. Mum had about a million things going on at once, the way she always does. The rice was pouring itself into the new automatic rice cooker that I'd bought for her birthday, the bean cans were popping open and emptying their pale guts into the pot that was loading itself into the oven, and Mum was ransacking the cabinets looking fro a new jar of salad dressing.

I was adding the cheese and croutons to the salad, but was thinking more about the conversation Mum and I were having. I'd decided, as per standard procedure, to take advantage of her self induced guilt trip, and had finally started the conversation that I'd been rehearsing for the past week.

I wanted to join the High School baseball team.

This shouldn't be a problem, except that Mum had developed a vendetta against the sport, and had decided that I would never play again.

But I'd thought over my argument carefully, and had my points and counterpoints lined out and well rehearsed. I had a chance to be on the team this year, and I was going to do it.

The argument was turning in my favor, I could see Mum loosing steam and grasping at weak excuses. There was still the remote chance that she could say no anyways, but I was giving as good as I got.

I was so animated in my arguments, I felt as though I would burst out of my skin. I shifted from foot to foot to try to release some of that energy, I tapped my fingers against the counter but it didn't really do much good. My blood was racing through my veins and my arms began to prickle strangely.

Even now I'm not sure how to describe the sensation. Suffice it to say that the wooden spoon that I had been holding burst into quick, hot flame, wilted the salad, and fell with an ominous finality upon the counter.

We stood for a long time, watching the spoon smolder.

All I could think was that there was absolutely no way she would ever let me be on the team now.

Mum didn't really know what to do after that. She'd always hoped that I'd be a telekinetic like her, but by the time I'd entered Junior High without showing any manifestations of powers she'd resigned herself to the fact that I would go through life as a citizen. She'd accepted that, and come to terms with it.

Neither of us had ever dared to consider that I would inherit my father's powers. The implications were too big. I used to dream about being a pyro, throwing glaring comets with the sinuous grace my father exuded. But those dreams burned with the Maxville capitol building.

She didn't know what to do, so she went back to the office, saying that she'd forgotten something important. I didn't blame her, because I wanted to hide too. So I sat down at the table and ate my favorite meal alone.

Short ribs always tasted bitter to me after that.

Mum came home later that evening and we both ghosted through the house, not avoiding each other exactly, but moving as though we were two magnets with the same charge.

I went to sleep, and Mum stood in the kitchen, looking at the spoon and crying.

* * *

The next day Mum was gone when I woke up, there was a post-it on my door frame explaining that something at the office had come up and that she wouldn't be home until late. The cremated spoon was gone from the counter, the dark black singe mark its sole monument.

That Friday, for the first time in many years, I cut school. I hadn't done that since my Dad went to jail. I used to cut school a lot to hang out with him, to play baseball in the park a few blocks from our house, and even though Mum said I shouldn't be missing so much class, he would make sure that I never got in trouble.

Once he was arrested I stopped cutting school because I didn't feel like I had anything to do besides feel lonely. Mum didn't seem like she would have been able to handle any more trouble either.

But today I laced up my mud stained shoes, and shrugged into my worn jacket. I left my backpack and textbooks sitting by the stairs and headed out the door into the early spring air. I looked around for a bit, up and down our shabby yet respectable street as though I wasn't too sure where I was going.

I did know where I was going, but I wasn't sure how to start. So I stood on the chipped sidewalk, and looked around.

Our street wasn't prosperous exactly, but the people did the best they could. It was a street of people who were either starting their families and old couples with their families grown and gone. I was the oldest kid on our street. The next oldest being Amy, who was six. Mum and Dad came here to start our family, and we're still frozen here. We're waiting for him to come back so that our family can resume.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets and turned down the street, kicking the withered leaves that had escaped last autumn's rakes away with absent minded resentment. I continued on in a defensive slump, suddenly feeling as if the world looked at me and disapproved.

I tried not to worry about what Mum would think, or what I would tell her, but suddenly nothing seemed as important anymore, and it was a long walk. So I imagined how our next conversation might go, and shivered from an internal cold.

All of the volatile excitement from yesterday had left me, and I slouched along as though hoping that the gazes of other early morning wanderers would slide off my rounded back.

By the time I reached the buss stop my cheeks were smarting and my nose was running as though it thought it had been entered in a race. My stomach rumbled as I collapsed in a window seat near the back of the bus and tried to look inconspicuous.

I got off at the other side of town, as far West as the busses ran, and followed my shrinking shadow down the ragged edge of the highway. I almost missed the dirt road leading off into an obscure canyon, but then it was meant to be missed and I had only ever been here once before.

I complied placidly with the security guards that met me after several hundred yards and twisting bends in the rough dirt path, and they walked the last little stretch with me. I told them who I was and who I had come to see, and after filling out several forms I changed into the sweat pants and tee shirt that they provided for me, and shuffled out in the hard bottomed slippers. I passed through a series of machines designed to detect the innumerable contraband items in Maxville Maximum Security Detention Centre, and was admitted to see my father.

* * *

I sat gingerly in the little plastic chair and waited for my Dad to be shown in. The room was small, but not gloomy. Well lit, but not blindingly bright either. If I had been able to leave my nervousness behind me it would have actually been a fairly pleasant room, with two chairs, two doors, and one table.

My heart was beating in my throat, and the air felt like it was filled with soup. Perhaps split pea; that was my Dad's favorite, thick and grainy with large, tender chunks of smoked ham. We hadn't had it in years; I wonder if they serve it here?

My nervously rambling thoughts were interrupted when the door across from me opened. I stood awkwardly, not really sure what to do with my hands, or the rest of myself for that matter. Three figures entered, two guards flanking an unfamiliar shape.

It was slumped, much as I had been on my trip here, his shaggy black hair falling into his eyes. He looked up at the noise my chair made when I stood.

For one terrifying moment, I thought that they had brought the wrong man in. The face was so haggard and solemn. Then he smiled, and his face creased in its old familiar way, and I was looking at my Dad after eight long years. He laughed and strode around the table, swinging me up in one of his wonderful, unrestrained hugs. I was swept back to those afternoons in the park, all the more sweet because they were stolen, and all the more precious because they were gone.

Discarding every scrap of dignity that my advanced age demanded, I returned his hug as fiercely as I could, feeling as though everything would be fine again. Then he sighed, the big earth rumbling sigh that echoed as though from deep subterranean caves filled with crystal, and gently pulled away.

"Hey," I said, my voice squeaking and uncertain.

"Hey," he said back, in his velvet thunder voice, and I was reminded of winter evenings huddled under blanket cities.

"I set Mum's spoon on fire. The one you bought for her at the fair." I said, regretfully disentangling myself from him to salvage at least a remnant of my dignity. It was strange, to see him again, and I wanted to fall back into our old camaraderie, but at the same time felt that I should keep this stranger at arms length.

I knew that he'd done bad things, that people hated and feared him and that Mum cried nearly every night for years. But in that moment, all I could see in him was my Dad, the guy I played baseball with, who was just as scared of heights as I was, and who could make anything better.

"I see." He rumbled again, folding his arms pensively as his warm smoky scent folded around me like a sunny autumn day. He always smelled like apple wood smoke. There were new, desolate elements to his scent now, metal and sanitizers, harsh chemicals. I ignored these new intruders and filled my mind with his sweet smell.

"I don't know what to do." I whispered, examining my shoes.

"It's okay." He murmured, reaching out and running his strong fingers through my hair and brushing the niggling doubts and raging fears from my mind with each smooth, confident stroke.

"I don't even know how I did it. On minute we were talking and the next I'd flambéed the salad." I choked into him, finally letting all of my confusion and fear bleed through the tight wraps I'd put on them, because I knew he's be able to wash away the stains. This was easily the most vulnerable that I'd allowed myself to be in years.

"Were you excited?" He said, his eyes glazing over and looking far back, "Like you couldn't hold still; had to let all the energy out or you'd shake yourself to pieces?"

"Yeah," I said, looking up and dislodging his rhythmic fingers, "Is that how it feels when you power up?"

"No. Only the first time." He said, ruffling my hair and swinging the chair round the table so that we could sit together, "That's how it feels the first time all pyrokinetics power up. While or powers develop, they store energy, and when the energy reaches some arbitrary level it's concentrated and pushed from the body as flame."

"So…how do you make it happen?" I asked.

Dad got this far off look in his eyes, and nibbled on the edge of his lip the way he used to when we'd get to the grocery store and discover that we'd forgotten the list and would have to wing it.

"It…feels like…when you take a big gulp of a warm drink on a cold day and you can feel it move down to your stomach and settle. It's like that, warm and heavy, somewhere in the center of you." He said finally.

I tried to feel where he was talking about, but all I felt were the vibrations of my hungry stomach. "I can't find it," I muttered distractedly, still casting around for it with my eyes closed.

"It's hard to find it the first couple times, but it gets easier and easier until you don't really need to think about it." Dad said, his chair creaking as he rocked back on it, "Instead of concentrating on specific places try to spread your mind out until you're aware of your entire torso, and look for warm spots. My power is focused in my abdomen, but it's slightly different for everyone."

I opened on eye and looked at him, wondering if he was just messing with me. 'Spread my mind'? Really. But he just grinned back and winked at me, and so I closed my eyes again and tried to imagine my mind as a slab of margarine.

Dad was always at his most serious when his eyes were laughing at you.

The hunger must have been more serious than I'd thought, because after a while I did feel like there was an area just under my sternum that was warmer than it should be.

"Okay, so what do I do when I find a warm spot?" I asked, still the slightest bit skeptical.

"Well, that's the question. I just sort of prod it, but there was a guy in my senior year who said that he had to drag it to his arms, and another that had to give it mental instructions. There really are no hard and fast rules when it comes to super powers." He said, shifting his weight in his chair, "Just mess with it until something happens."

"Great," I muttered, jabbing at it viciously with my margarine mind. Unfortunately all that happened was that I got a mental image of melted butter, and my stomach ached at the almost imagined smell.

I tried more things than I could think for the next several hours. Every once in a while he would offer a suggestion, something he'd heard another pyrokinetic mention and everything he could remember from his old textbooks.

After several hours that really felt like minutes one of the guards that had brought Dad in came back to tell us that visiting hours were over now and that I could come back later. I opened my eyes and stood, still playing with the hot spot like a loose tooth. I sighed as my stiff muscles protested, and my hands burst into flame.

"Excellent!" Dad shouted, completely ignoring the glower from the security guard and examining my hands, "So, it's tied to your breathing, I've never heard of that before, although now that I think of it there was a cryokinetic that activated his powers with his breath."

I looked at my still flaming hands for a moment and watched as the amber flames danced on my fingers. Then my blood froze as a thought occurred to me.

"Dad, how do I make it stop?" I asked, only a little hysterically as I swung my hands around trying to shake the flames off of them.

"Just do the opposite of what you did to make them start." Dad said, laughing at the look on my face.

I sucked in a big lungful of air and the flames disappeared. I exhaled in relief, and they came right back.

"You need to let go of the power source first," Dad said gently, looking like he was deciding between looking proud or laughing.

"Right…" I muttered, and with that breath the flames were gone, leaving my fingers feeling as though I'd dunked them in a November pond.

"You'll be alright getting home?" Dad asked, as the guard took his wrists and secured them behind his back, "Wait, how did you get here in the first place, did your mother drive you?"

"No," I said, a little sheepishly, "I walked. And took the bus. But mostly walked."

"You're going to catch it from your mother when you get back," Dad said, looking at me worriedly.

"It's okay," I shrugged, trying not to think of the chains around my father's wrists.

"Look, be careful on your way home. And be sure to eat a good dinner. Our powers draw energy from our metabolisms, if you over do it and then don't eat you'll start taking energy from your reserves, and when those run out you'll start to auto-cannibalize your muscle mass. It's also easier to power up when you're full," Dad said, looking at me as though he might never see me again, and had to tell me…everything as the guard maneuvered him out of the room.

The door closed, and I left to retrieve my clothing before starting the long walk home.

* * *

Reviews and advice are greatly appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Distorting Medium

Author: Grapefruit. ninja

Edited: 3-10-09

* * *

Mum was very quite when I got home. She was sitting on the couch flipping through the news, but I was sure that she was thinking about another evening spent waiting for someone to come home.

I sat down next to her and spilled my guts. I spoke haltingly, and focused on the small rug spread over the wood floor in front of the couch, but in the end, I told her everything.

I told her that I'd cut school, that I'd been to see Dad, and that I intended to go see him again tomorrow. She sat there and waited for me, and when I was done she pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes.

"I haven't handled this very well, and Warren I'm sorry. You were right to go talk to Baron, and I'm not mad at you. I wish that you had told me where you were going, but I understand why you didn't and I wasn't exactly inspiring your confidence. I'll drive you down to see Baron, or wherever else you need to go, just please, tell me. I was very worried when the school called to say that you had missed all of your classes," She said, rubbing her eyes tiredly and brushing back my hair in a fond gesture only two people in this world are allowed to make.

I looked at her for a little, I had expected something…a lot less collected. She smiled wanly at me, "Warren, I'm a first generation hero. I remember how frightening it was the first time I powered up, and I'm trying to be as calm and understanding as I wished my parents had been."

"Thanks," I whispered, not really sure what else to say.

"Come on, I'll make something quick for dinner and we can watch a movie or something." She said, bouncing to her feet with a strained enthusiasm and wandering into the kitchen.

I always thanked my Mum for what that evening cost her.

* * *

Mum was busy making arrangements to have me transfer schools all the next week, and I think it all worked out very nicely. Because we were already almost halfway through the spring semester I wouldn't be able to transfer to any of the superhero high schools until the beginning of the next academic year, and since I wouldn't be continuing on in the civilian educational system there was no point in my seeing this school year out.

Though Mum worried about what I would get up to while she was at work she allowed it, and looked a lot less worried when I showed her my plans for all of my new free time.

It had been my Dad's suggestion that I write up a schedule, it seemed that even after all this time he still knew my Mum better than anyone.

I would spend most of my time in the park where Dad and I used to hang out. It was small and out of the way, and I would be able to practice without being bothered. It wasn't too far from my house, so I'd be able to jog there and back. While there I would mostly work on my endurance and strength, to get a head start on the type of training I would be doing in my new high school. I would work there Mondays to Thursdays, and on Friday I would go to visit my Dad.

It was pretty easy to slack off the first couple of weeks, most days I would just relax on the grass and watch the clouds. My Friday meetings with Dad put a stop to that pretty quick though; he always knew when I was slacking.

So, to 'motivate' me, he would tell me stories about when he went to Sky High, one of the most prestigious private schools for heroes there is. I think that he made some of the stories about bullies up, and I hoped that he made most of them up, but the off chance that he was as serious as he sounded motivated me to work harder.

When Dad wasn't employing scare tactics we were talking about the different things that I could do with my powers, and things that I would have to watch out for.

Some things made sense, carry snacks, don't power up in enclosed spaces unless you're willing to barbecue everything with you, don't bother if you're swimming, and others were unexpected, meditation and breathing control exercises, and making as _little_ flame as I could manage, staying hydrated. Apparently I would have no idea what I was really capable of until I tried to do it, so I spent the majority of my time just messing around.

By about April we had a pretty good feel for what I could and could not do. I could control the fire that I created, but not anything resultant of it. Seeing as how fire doubles every thirty seconds, it was unlikely that I would be able to put anything out once I'd set fire to it. Fortunately I was invulnerable to all fire, and to a fairly large extent the smoke, though I would have to be more cautious with it. As a matter of fact there was a good chance that I was invulnerable like Mum, but she was adamant that I not test that theory, and Dad begrudgingly agreed.

Other things changed as well. For one, Mum was now making several trips to the supermarket a week. Things weren't necessarily tight financially – Mum made a good living solving the mundane crisis now and again – but my newly discovered monster appetite was eating into our savings.

So one Friday I asked Dad about what sort of jobs he'd had, why he did or didn't like them, and what he thought I should look into. His first suggestion was that I become a bare-knuckle boxer. After a little laugh we both agreed that we should start out with something a little tamer and then work our way up to bare-knuckle, for Mum's sake. Even though we both had a little chuckle over it, I got the impression that he'd been serious about it.

I never knew that Dad had done so many things; he told me stories about being an EMT, a firefighter, a musician, a waiter, a lobbyist, and a fresh produce grocer. At the end of the day he said that I should try waiting first, because there was always a chance that some poor fool restaurant would agree to pay my wages in meals the way they had for him. In fact, there was a chance that the place where Dad worked would still be open. He wrote down the address and the name of the owner for me on a scrappy bit of paper that he begged from one of the guards.  


* * *

The Paper Lantern was a little hole in the wall restaurant, but it was pleasantly lit up with a warm red glow and the sweet spicy scent from the food inside. There was a fairly steady stream of people moving from the twilight streets and into the warm glow of the little restaurant.

It was in a somewhat out of the way part of town, and at night the neighborhood could get a little dodgy. Lots of the buildings had fallen into disrepair, and there was a labyrinth of alleys filled with shattered glass and boarded windows.

Mum had been busy, all I caught from her hasty call was something about a construction accident, so I had walked. It hadn't taken too long, and it would be good to walk there and not be constantly pestering Mum for a ride.

I waited patiently inside the door until a large group had been seated, and when the cashier looked up at me I told him that I was here to see Miss May, the owner.

He gave me a strange look – I got the impression that he was trying to decide if he recognized me – taking in my long hair, which was curling slightly with the warm humid air promising a storm later on, and my maybe too worn jacked and my ratty jeans, smeared with mud and grass stains from that afternoon in the park.

But I guess that I passed the inspection because he led me through the restaurant and into a small back office where a squat little lady was rummaging through a pile of papers.

Her hair was peppery black and barely contained within a loose bun. My guide cleared his throat and she jumped up out of her chair, scattering her papers everywhere.

"Oh, Tom. What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?" She said, glancing up at us through deep set brown eyes before she disappeared back behind the desk, presumably to gather the scattered papers.

"The kid says that he's here to see you." My guide, Tom, said with the good natured patience that is inevitably born of long trial.

"What?" She said, poking her head back above the desk and looking around, "Oh, yes. You're the young man that called about the job?"

I nodded, not too sure that I wanted it anymore, she gave off subtle vibes of crazy.

"Wonderful. When can you start?" She said, smiling encouragingly.

I said nothing, completely taken by surprise, but she must have seen my confusion.

"I've been looking for a new busboy for ages, and I'm not about to let you get away." She said, walking around the desk with a vitality that belied her age. She looped her arm through mine and began to lead me back out into the restaurant, which was filling up alarmingly quickly, "So, when can you start?"

"Uh, whenever I guess. I was wondering if you would pay my wages in meals." I said hesitantly, noticing the slight falter in Miss May's quick stride.

"Well, you can start tonight then." She said, recovering quickly and steering me into the bustling kitchen, "Tom, go back to the counter, I'll get him started."

Tom gave us a somewhat dubious look before he returned to the growing chaos outside, shaking his shaggy head.

"Don't mind Tom," Miss May said, throwing the ties of an apron around my neck and handing me a tray to load dishes in.

"Thanks." I said, feeling borderline overwhelmed, but dead set not to let on.

"Of course," May said, turning to leave, "Wait," she continued, stopping me for a moment and looking a little – hesitant?

"You wouldn't happen to be Baron Battle's son?"

"I am." I said, not really sure how she would react

"You see him often?" She said, looking a little sad.

"Every Friday." I said, not really sure what else to say, even less sure of how she would react.

"He was a good kid." She said, smiling faintly, "Well, you'd best get out there, it's getting busy. I'll talk to Jung about getting you meals."

"Thanks." I said, smiling slightly and wading through the massive swinging doors and crowded room beyond.

That first night was one of the craziest of my life. Everyone was constantly moving and there was no quiet to be found anywhere. Things really picked up later in the evening, and I didn't have time to take in a full lungful of air until nine o'clock.

Once things slowed down I had a chance to examine my coworkers.

The girl washing dishes was a little on the short side; she had to stand on a wooden stool to reach into the deep industrial sinks comfortably. Her hair was cut in a short bob with slanting bangs, and she occasionally brushed it out of here eyes with a soap covered forearm. She was dressed well, but quietly. Everything about her was quiet. I never even noticed that she said "Thank you" every time I brought in a new load of dishes until what must have been my tenth trip. What's more I never caught her name.

I suppose that it wasn't too surprising that I didn't hear her; the cook Jung made an awful lot of noise. He banged around the kitchen in a cacophony of motion, throwing ingredients in pots simmering, frying, and tossing. Mouth watering smells danced languidly in the eddied of air left by his hurrying figure. He wasn't tall, or short, or fat, or thin. He was just, average I suppose. His black hair was cut short and his bronze skin glistened in the heat of the stoves. He turned out delicious smelling food at an amazing pace, and set it on a counter for the waiters to pick up.

Things finally slowed to a stop around eleven, and I found myself presented with a platter of garlic and eggplant.

"Help yourself to whatever else you want." Jung said, his voice startlingly even compared to his rapid motions.

"Thanks." I mumbled, taking the plate and collapsing into the nearest booth before I gracelessly shoveled the food into my mouth.

"So. You're Baron's kid."

I looked up and saw one of the waiters slide his long body into the chair across from me. Two others stood behind him.

I nodded, because I was exhausted, slightly nervous with a touch of embarrassment thrown in for good measure, and mostly because I was busy trying to force as much food into my starving stomach as quickly as I could.

"You know, we were in his class at school. The four of us were inseparable." He said, jerking his head at the other two behind him.

"You all have powers too?" I said, swallowing another mouthful of the butter soft eggplant.

"I'm Marshal." He said, in way – or lieu – of reply, "This is James, and that's Sofia."

"Warren." I said, nodding at them and smiling nervously, I figured that if they'd addressed me as "Baron's kid" there was a good chance that they didn't know my real name.

"Well Warren, if there's anything we can do for you just let us know." Marshal said, pushing up from the chair and giving the table a little rap with his knuckles.

"Sure, thanks." I said, just a little shell shocked as they all ghosted away. I'd never met anyone the remembered my father _fondly_ before tonight.

As they ducked into the small staff hallway, no doubt to retrieve their coats, I caught Tom's eye. He was standing nearby at the cash register and was glaring rather forcefully in my direction.

I finished my meal hastily and dropped my plate off in the kitchen just as May was officially closing the restaurant.

"Thanks," I said to her, trying in the one word to convey my gratitude for everything that she had done for me tonight. I was saying that way too much tonight, and I wasn't sure how to feel about it. I don't like being obligated to people, and that one word was an admission of more obligation than I was comfortable with.

"Not a problem Warren dear. I'll see you tomorrow at six." She said, beaming at me before bustling away.

I grabbed my coat and headed out the door to the misty moonlight, viciously squashing the little bounce that threatened my even pace.

* * *

The next couple of weeks were great. I settled into my new routine comfortably, immensely enjoying the large, delicious dinners at the Lantern. I even became friends with Marshal, James, and Sofia.

It turned out that the Paper Lantern was a popular restaurant in the hero community, and the staff all had powers. Well, except for Stephanie, the girl who washed dishes and never said much. She was the daughter of some minor hero, with and affinity for aquatic animals, and she had yet to develop any powers.

Jung could create up to five replicas of himself, and he sometimes did when things got really busy.

Miss May was telepathic, which might have wierded me out if she hadn't been so discrete about it.

But most interesting to me were my newfound friends.

Marshal was the undisputed leader, and he certainly looked it. He was tall and lean, with a swimmer's build. His chestnut hair curled into lazy ringlets that didn't quite reach his shoulders, and his eyes were stormy grey. He preferred dark wash jeans, which he tore himself, and tight fitting tops, usually black. Marshal was a psychic of sorts, and could project illusions that affected all of the senses, not just sight.

James was what you would call the "Jokester" of the group I guess. He was a little on the short side, 5'8"-5'9", but made up for it by being louder than three people put together. He had shaggy blond hair which he let fall into his milky brown eyes and partially obscure his face. He wore clothes a lot like Marshal's, ripped and worn as well, but looser fitting. James was an electropath, meaning that he could control electronic currents, and if he understood how they worked, sometimes electronic appliances.

Sofia was a bit of an enigma, or at least she confused me. She was Miss May's niece and one of those people who wasn't happy unless she was criticizing something. Yet for all he scorn of pop culture she was in it neck deep. Her bronze skin was always powdered, and her eyes were heavily lined. She had one of those hairstyles that take hours to do so that it looks like you just rolled out of bed, and was furious every time Miss May insisted that she wear one of those "horrid" uniforms.

I must admit, the uniforms were quite a sight. They were lime sherbet green and looked as though their first life had been in a cheep motel. Luckily, I didn't have to wear one. Just a stained apron and a mildew-y washcloth for the tables over my street clothes. Which, coincidentally, Sofia had a lot to say about.

She was always in some black and white ensemble, and it seemed that she'd taken control of the guys' wardrobes as well. The crazy shapeshifter – That's what she did, turned into a great big hooded cobra. I hardly need to mention that she was black and white while shifted too – soon had me in hand as well. Before I knew it my wardrobe was filled with black and red.

The other two waiters, who didn't socialize with Marshal's group and looked at me warily, stayed a true mystery for the most part. I know that they were named Tom and Alec. Tom must have been six foot something with salt and pepper hair in the Mad Scientist Style, he was scrupulously tidy in a relaxed, comfortable way, always immaculately dressed but never stiff as you would expect. Alec was a squat, round man who always spoke in a quiet, mellow voice. Of the two he was the diplomat and was usually the one that fielded customer complaints.

Marshal told me that they'd attended Sky High for about a year as sidekicks, but had opted out and went to a regular High School later. He said that their powers were pretty obscure and that it had probably been a smart move on their part.

* * *

And so the weeks passed and I fell comfortably into my routine. One evening, when I was particularly tired, I mentioned that I had been working out on the softball field behind the tiny local park. After that Marshal and the guys started dropping by, and soon they were spending all day training with me.

I really appreciated the help – they really knew what they were doing and helped me with things that I'd previously had to figure out on my own. They helped me polish my technique and taught me some cool new moves as well. I learned all sorts of useful things from them; pressure points from Sofia, holds from James, and once he was sure that I could take a fall Marshal took me to the group's training area in an industrial section of town, where he taught me to free run, so that if I needed to I could outrun either a pursuer or a target.

I started splitting my time between the field and the lot behind the waterworks with them, and always arrived at the Lantern tired and hungry.

They were a little crazy, some of the stunts that they pulled were a little dangerous, and Mum got kind of nervous when I came home covered in dirt and added new tears to my clothing daily. I promised her that I was being careful, and made sure not to let her find out that I'd torn the knee of my jeans jumping from a three story building.

Their methods were a little extreme – bruises and sore muscles became a matter of course now that I was training with them – but I was glad for the company and the direction. It always turned out all right, and eventually I stopped worrying and trusted that they knew what they were doing.

* * *

Mum was still as busy as ever, but not too busy to sign me up for a "summer camp" that July.

Needless to say, it didn't exactly go over well.

"But I don't see why I need to go. I'm learning more from Marshal and the guys than I would at some camp, it'd just be a waste. Besides, it's way too expensive. The cost of that thing is about the same as a year's tuition as some of the schools out in the countryside." I said impatiently, determined to talk her out of squandering my last month of freedom before I went back to school.

"I know Warren, but it'll be good for you to work with some kids your own age. And some of the more prestigious schools offer scholarships to kids who do well. We might be able to afford sending you to one of the better schools with a scholarship and some financial aide. That's the only way lots of kids get into places like Sky High. It's an opportunity that I think you should take advantage of. Who knows? You might even learn something. At the worst it'll give you an idea of what to expect next year. Please Warren, at least think about it?" Mum said, holding out the pamphlet.

"All right, I'll think about it. A scholarship would be nice." I said, taking the pamphlet and grimacing at Mum to let her know that however much I might dislike the idea I wasn't just agreeing to pacify her.

"Thanks Warren." She said, giving me a one armed hug and tugging on a strand of my hair, which only she will ever get away with doing.

"'Kay, I better get off to work. See you later." I said, giving her a quick smile before I grabbed my sweater and headed out into the balmy June air. I stuffed the pamphlet into my pocket and jogged down towards the Lantern.

I arrived a little early, about the same time the Marshal and the others were being wrangled into their uniforms.

"Hey Warren!" James nearly shouted at me, waving his arms in big windmill patterns to make sure he caught my attention, "We're going down to Skilly'n'Duff after work, you should come."

"Yeah," Sofia said, trying to pretend that she didn't resemble key lime pie, "It'd be fun."

"Sure." I said, putting my jacket into the closet and pulling the pamphlet out of my pocket as an afterthought, "Hey, what do you guys know about this camp? My Mum thinks that I should go."

"Which one?" Marshal said, striding forward and taking the proffered pamphlet with his spider fingers, "Oh, that's a good one, lots of great scholarships, you could get one no problem – kids don't usually train before going off to school and at a camp as cushy as this you could cream anyone no problem."

"It's a pricey one though, you gonna be able to afford it?" James said, taking the paper from Marshal and flipping through it.

"I suppose." I said, shrugging noncommittally, "What sorts of things do they do there?"

"Lots of power control, basic self defense maneuvers, lots of obstacle courses. Things you already know." Sofia said, looking over James' shoulder, "I got a scholarship to Sky High from this camp when I was a kid."

"Really?" I said, looking over at her, "How much was it?"

"They paid for my first two years. After that I talked to the councilors and got reduced price for the last two."

"What were some of the other scholarships like?"

"There were four or five like mine, some smaller ones, and one full ride to any school in the state, AKA Sky High." Sofia said, shrugging and picking at the hem of her shirt, "I had never practiced – not the way that you do – Marshal's right, this'll be a cakewalk for you."

* * *

I'd been to Skilly'n'Duff several times before with the guys after work. It was a pretty seedy pub four blocks from the Lantern, and fit the overall feel of the neighborhood better than the cheerful little restaurant. The first time that I'd tagged along I was pretty freaked out, though I don't think that they noticed.

It was a rundown old building with wooden siding corroded away by the chill ocean breeze lisping off the uninviting beach several hundred yards away. I kid you not, it was straight out of the movies. The inside was loud and crowded, but very well kept. The bar was always well-polished and crowded, emitting a constant flow of noise and drink.

There were pool tables and dart boards, noisy card games and secretive meetings in the murky corners. They were always filled with half lit faces, some with a glowing third eye exhaling plumes of acrid smoke to further distort the light of the gloomy room.

It was inhabited by a strange conglomerate of people, but the common distinguishing factor was that they all looked like they could hold their own in a fight. The first time I came James sat me down at the bar and we people watched, guessing at who you would and would not tangle with. Eventually I got pretty good at distinguishing between the serious fighters and the thugs, and we made it a game to guess how a fight between two of the patrons would go and who would win.

A couple nights later Marshal punched out a guy over something to do with their card game, and came over to where we were at the bar and sat with us. He joined in on the game, and while we guessed he'd sometimes comment on how you would want to fight if you were the one fighting such and such a person.

After the first couple visits we went in back, past a grim looking guy with a bat who nodded solemnly to James and Marshal. At the end of the hallway there was a small room, made smaller by the crowd rammed inside. It was packed and the noise was deafening, and it was all centered around a rough ring in the middle where Sofia was beating the snot out of some guy twice her size.

We watched for a bit, and Marshal pointed out what she was doing, with James occasionally throwing in a comment or two. Because the guy was so much bigger than she was, Sofia was being careful that he not catch hold of her, fighting more conservatively than she would with an opponent closer to her own size.

After that we spent most of our time at Skilly'n'Duff watching the fights, James and Marshal ducking in and out as often as Sofia, though perhaps not with the same relish. I learned a lot by watching them fight, at least as much as I did when we were out training. It was like taking a science lab class along with the theory.

* * *

Tonight it was just as packed as it always is, and we had to push a little to get good spots near the ring. We watched a couple fights, and James nudged me, gesturing at the guy who'd just stepped into the ring and was waiting for an opponent to step up.

"Why don't you give it go. You should be able to handle this guy."

"This'll be a good first fight for you, he's about your size, probably a little slower too." Marshal said, nodding and looking at the guy appraisingly.

I hesitated for a bit, I didn't really see the point in starting a fight with some random stranger. It was fine if other people wanted to do it, but I didn't feel the urge to join in. Besides, I'd never really been in a fight before and wasn't too eager to try now.

"Practice makes perfect. If you can take this guy you can sweep that camp." Sofia added, throwing an arm across my shoulders and giving me a confident wink.

I'd sparred with the guys before, but it had never been anything serious, mostly just practicing holds or the occasional throw. These fights were to knockout, and they very often got bloody. But I trusted that Marshal wouldn't get me in over my head, so I handed my jacket to James and stepped into the ring.

We circled each other for a moment, took some lazy swipes to size the other up. I had very little idea of what to do; I'd watched fighters size each other up before and listened to Marshal and James analyze their movements, but it was very different on this side of the ropes.

I was relieved when he finally closed the distance and came at me for real, because the waiting was making me nervous. I blocked his first couple of punches, and threw a couple of my own, but they were only half-hearted. I felt a little foolish, but that lessened each time a blow got past my guard and shocked my head a little more into the fight than it had been before, but still, I didn't feel entirely right or committed to this fight.

I could hear the crowd shouting at us, could pick out the voices. I could hear Marshal and Sofia shouting at me to get serious already, and James taking bets in the crowd behind me. Apparently I had not made a good first impression with them; most of the bets were against me.

I guess that I listened to the crowd for too long, because the next thing I knew a fist had connected with my jaw and there were stars behind my eyes. He might not have been fast, but he was strong.

I staggered back and shook my head a little to clear it, and focused back on the fight.

I hunkered down and really went after him, squashing the voice with the audacity to ask why I was doing this.

I made several solid hits, and he was starting to look tired. He was swaying and moving even slower. I was still going strong, but feeling it just a little. Fighting while I was powered up was harder than when I wasn't because the fire consumed more energy as well as using up the oxygen in the air around me, but any prolonged fight would still get draining.

I hung in there, and continued to hammer at him until he collapsed onto his knees. I backed off and let him catch his breath, even though the crowd and my own practical sensibility howled at me to finish it. But I stopped, waited and caught my breath. I couldn't hit him while he was on his knees like that. I just couldn't bring myself to it.

Eventually he staggered back to his feet and brought his fists back up, glaring at me balefully. I suppose that my unwillingness to fight insulted him, because he came back at me hard and fast. Regardless, I was done. The squashed voice in the back of my head had re-inflated and was now a roaring siren. This was not right, I should not be here, should not be doing this.

I blocked his punches, and refused to lash back out at all. I only ever moved to stop him, but when he hooked his leg around my feet I moved too slow and he bore us to the mat.

His elbow came down on my chest, directly above the center of my sternum where the source of my fire was. The world exploded and for a while all I could see was pulsing red and black lights, all that I heard was a far off crashing as of waves. I couldn't breathe. And worst of all was the pain. It lanced out of my core, burning down my arms, my legs, stabbing even into the roots of my teeth. I might have screamed if I had the air to, but it had all been knocked out of me.

Eventually I began to notice other things, first distantly but approaching me rapidly. I could feel fists pounding into me, my chest, stomach, head. Re-entering the world I was confused, catching light and noise first. Then everything sharpened and I could breathe again.

The first order of business was to stop the guy leaning over me. Then I would get out. I brought up my arms and managed to stop the worst of the blows. Once that was under control I struck out, as fast and as hard as I could, catching him on the temple. He lurched up and away, but this time I didn't hang back. I followed him. And I didn't let up. I swung until I was exhausted, and even then I kept going.

I guess that he must have been in pretty bad shape, because James and Marshal grabbed me and hauled me between them out through the path that Sofia cleared. Before I knew it we were outside in the cool ocean fog. I collapsed on the cement when James and Marshal finally let me down, holding my head in my hands and gulping in the cool air.

We all stood, or in my case sat, in the salty air outside the smoky noise of the bar for a while.

"Well," Marshal said, hauling me back up to my feet, "for your first fight that wasn't so bad."

"Yeah, you did really well once you committed to it." Sofia said, patting me on the arm.

"We'd better get you cleaned up." James said, slinging my arm across his shoulders and beginning to lead me away.

They half carried, half dragged me back to Marshal's apartment, which wasn't too far away.

Once they'd washed the blood off I didn't look so bad, my face was covered in small cuts and one cheekbone was badly bruised and my lip was split, but all things considered they declared that I'd gotten off lightly.

My hands were another matter. They were swollen and sore and the skin across my knuckles was broken, some of it to the bone. Marshal cleaned them out with a burning liquid and rubbed some sort of disinfectant cream into them and wrapped them up in gauze, all the while telling stories about other fights, ones they'd lost and one's that they'd won.

They slapped my back and laughed a lot, and after a while I got over the shock and adrenaline of the fight and started to laugh along with them, hiding the faintly hysterical note until I wasn't sure that it had ever existed.

* * *

Thanks everyone for the wonderful feedback, please keep sending advice! I tried to toughen Warren up in the first half of the chapter, because he came off as a little too post-movie nice-guy Warren, so please tell me how you think it went and if there's something I can do to refine it a little more!


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